


Honey

by rachhell



Category: South Park
Genre: 1980s, 1990s, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Codependency, Courtroom Drama, Cryle Week 2019, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation, HIV/AIDS, Journalism, M/M, Mental Illness, Murder, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Multiple, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Unhealthy Relationships, gratuitous pop culture references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-02-26 23:06:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18726688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachhell/pseuds/rachhell
Summary: The Redhead Killer has plagued the Bay Area for years. In the autumn of 1980, the San Francisco Police Department finally receives a lead that will break the case.But, as with everything, it comes with a price. For Kyle Broflovski, it means an upheaval of life as he knows it.





	Honey

**Author's Note:**

> **I beg of you, please heed the warnings and tags before proceeding. Much of what happens in this story could be triggering to many people.** It goes without saying that I don't think murder, serial killers, and the like are cool, or romantic, or sexy. It's just a story. And it's a story that is intended to be disturbing.
> 
> I'm going to give a good try of making everything as historically and geographically accurate as possible, but there may be points where I slip up. I've never been to SF and can't afford to travel there just to write an accurate fic, and was a toddler at the end of the 1980s. If you notice any glaring errors, don't hesitate to let me know; I'm just going off of what Wikipedia and the like tell me. At first, I thought about making it a modern setting, simply for ease of writing, but advances in forensic investigation would end that story before it even began.
> 
> This was written for Cryle Week 2019, day two - AU (I know it's late. They're all going to be late, and out of order). This is going to be a behemoth of a fic, and I hope I finish!
> 
> Special thank you to guineaDogs for helping me brainstorm and for continuing to screech over this AU with me. Ily dude!

**_San Francisco, September, 1980._ **

  
  


It was a blessing that Kyle Broflovski was a heavy sleeper. It wasn’t just because their recently-elected mayor granted the city the go-ahead on this bullshit development project that led to construction of, among other things, a high-rise condo right next to his and Craig’s neat little Craftsman home — as much a gift from Kyle’s parents as it was purchased with Kyle’s hard-earned cash from his first couple years at an up-and-coming computer company — which, in turn, led to jackhammers and bulldozers and all sorts of saws waking up his boyfriend at all hours.

It was also because Craig tended to come home late.

But Kyle rarely woke up when he did, not until he heard the hinges creak on their bedroom door. Sometimes not even then. Sometimes it wasn’t until Craig was crawling into bed with him, freshly-showered, with wet hair that made Kyle’s nose tickle enough for him to sneeze when Craig would cuddle up to him, throwing a long, lithley-muscular arm around his waist and nuzzling his damp face into the crook of Kyle’s neck.

Kyle was always happy it was  _ Craig  _ who walked through the door, what with everything going on. What with everything that kept happening to people like him. Sometimes, he barely slept at all, even if Craig was snoring away right next to him, for fear that maybe their windows weren’t actually locked. They’d exhausted themselves going through their house, plotting out every possible point of entry, every potential weak spot. He was confident —  _ they _ were confident that it was as secure as possible.

He knew he’d be just fine and dandy, thank you very much. He always remembered to put his hair in a ponytail, and shove it under a hat until he was back home, or at the office. When he wasn’t with Craig, he walked with a buddy — Kevin from work, Kenny from… decidedly  _ not _ work-related dalliances. He carried one knife in his pocket, and another in his sock, in the event he found himself alone after dark. He kept a knife on his person in the house, and a handgun in his bedside table, just in case a census-taker, or someone selling vacuum cleaners, or a canvasser for the Republican party didn’t turn out to be who they said they were.

Granted, taking out a Republican party canvasser by accident could be considered a public service, Kyle figured. Even a Democratic one, frankly; he was tired of hearing about Reagan this and Carter that and was about ready to cut his own Carter-Mondale window pennant into tiny pieces and scatter it off the bridge like confetti.

Politics were one thing. His  _ life _ was another, and why would he waste his time worrying about the economy when worrying about the economy could bring his guard down enough to cost him everything? Still, Kyle knew, then, that he was safe.

He was armed. He had Craig. But it was more than that.

Sometimes when he couldn’t sleep, it was because he didn’t need it. He could stay up all night working on the prototype for his portable data storage device that would someday blow the Walkman out of the water, if they ever got to that point — Kyle would see to it that they  _ did.  _ He could revisit book after book, magazine after magazine, maybe triple-check Craig’s undergraduate thesis on US-India trade relations with articles about what Carter did over in China last year and how they compared, not that he cared, really, but maybe Craig would if he was really serious about this whole business law thing… and then he could rest for a few hours and do it all over again because sometimes, he felt invincible.

Woe be unto the murderer who would so much as look at him. No killer could touch him, not then.

But that Friday night, he had no trouble sleeping soundly. He thought it never rained in September, not  _ there, _ but it turned out to be a rare rainy, chilly day indeed, temperature dropping cool enough to necessitate a jacket the moment the sun set. He’d decided to lie down with the most recent issue of  _ BYTE  _ at around eight p.m., and the patter of rain on his roof lulled him into a restful, dreamless slumber before he could delve into the article about the future of secure banking software he was most excited about reading.

When the weight of a body on the empty side of the bed roused him sometime near two a.m., what first crossed Kyle’s mind was his surprise that he didn’t awaken with a gasp. That he didn’t jump out of bed and blindly scramble to his bedside table because there was someone  _ there  _ and god how could he  _ know _ how could he be so  _ stupid… _ but this wasn’t last spring, or even a year prior, when he was still so scared and paranoid and unsure. He knew it was Craig. A short, sharp sniffle followed by a familiar head nuzzling his shoulder assured him of the fact.

Craig’s hair wasn’t wet. Only slightly damp, like he’d been in and out of the rain. Kyle shut his eyes again, a contented murmur of some sleepy greeting getting caught in his throat as he pressed his face into Craig’s hair. He smelled of smoke and earth.

Beneath him, Craig stiffened, then his head twitched.

“‘S’wrong?” Kyle reached to stroke Craig’s arm, finding it odd he still wore his sweater. It was routine for him to shower after long nights in the library, to return to bed fully disrobed.

“Hey.” Craig sniffled again, and Kyle was cognizant of the fact that Craig’s jaw was clenching, his teeth grinding. “Honey. Good to see you.” His voice came pinched and gunfire-rapid.

“Craig. My god. You need to take it easy with that stuff.” Kyle sighed, well aware that he sounded like a sleep-drunk, deeper-voiced version of his own mother.

“You know it helps me study. You know it, um, it…” Craig let out this laugh like Kyle hadn’t heard before. Barking, sharp. Anguished. “Hon, I have to ask you something.” He paused for but a split second, giving Kyle no chance to issue him a go-ahead. “What if I did something terrible? What would you do?” He shifted, pulling away and laying on his side, facing Kyle.

Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Kyle glanced over, noticing that Craig’s eyes shone bright in the near pitch-black of his room, that he’d pulled his hands under his chin, like he was trying to draw in on himself, that he was chewing on his lip.

Groaning slightly, Kyle rolled over on his side to face him. Craig’s face softened, but only slightly when Kyle reached to brush a hand against his cheek. “I adore you, you know. What could you do that’s so terrible?” Rather than wait for an answer, Kyle instead wrapped his arm around Craig’s waist, itchy polyester sweater and all, and pulled him in before pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I won’t hold it against you if you skipped out on studying to go to the club again. You’re only human.”

Although he returned the embrace, Craig’s body was tense, and his resultant laugh resembled his first. He was high, that was all. Wouldn’t be the first time, and how big a hypocrite would Kyle be to get upset over a little blow?

“I like to think you’d stay with me through anything,” Craig mumbled into Kyle’s ear. “That even if I’m a bad person, you’d still… Still like me. Still be mine.”

“You’re not a bad person; you’re just coming down.” Yawning, Kyle patted Craig’s shoulder. “You need water. And a Valium. And I need to go back to  _ sleep,  _ okay?”

“You look pretty tonight,” Craig added, apropos of nothing, running his hand down the length of Kyle’s spine.

It made Kyle scoff. “ _ Pretty.  _ I look like I need more sleep.”

“Mmm, no. You look very pretty. Gorgeous. Stunning. A real knockout. Positively  _ choice.  _ That any better?” Kyle could hear the smile in Craig’s voice, and it made him embrace Craig tighter.

“Your sweater is itchy. Let’s get you changed.”

“Yeah, well, I need a smoke.” All but scrambling away from Kyle to sit upright, Craig shucked off his sweater, tossing it across the room with a shudder, as if it were something unclean, something soiled. This made Kyle’s brow arch. It was habit for Craig to change methodically, placing each item of dirty clothing right into the hamper, or carefully smoothing out and hanging anything that could be worn again.

“Bum me one, would you?” Kyle tossed out, sitting up and wearily rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, seeing static stars form as his vision returned to normal. “You know, they’re saying they might pass a law so you can’t smoke in stores anymore. Grocery stores, and all that,” he added, for lack of anything else to say. For lack of want to acknowledge whatever was going on with Craig. The near-tandem flick of their lighters briefly illuminated their bedroom, and Kyle noticed Craig sat with his knees drawn into his chest. “Not sure what I think about  _ that, _ but…”

It was then he noticed the taste of the cigarette. Cheap, tarry, nothing like their usual Camels. His nose reflexively scrunched, and Craig, although his teeth were still grinding away between drags, when he paused to flick his ashes into the ashtray he’d set on their bed, seemed to pick up on the cause of the huff Kyle released.

“Someone was passing out Reagan cigarette packs down on Broadway,” Craig said, exhaling almost hurriedly. “Wouldn’t, um. Wouldn’t you? I mean. They were free, so.”   
  
“Broadway? What the fuck were you…” Kyle bit back the rant he knew was imminent, about Craig letting Kenny, and likely a gaggle of Kenny’s straight friends, take him to a titty bar.  _ Again.  _ When he should have been, when he said he  _ was _ studying. “Campaign cigarettes,” he instead repeated, with clenched jaw. “Anything to get people to vote for him, huh?”   
  
“Mm,” Craig acknowledged with a twitch of his head. “You know, I think—”   
  
Kyle cut him off with a groan and a deep drag of his smoke, which now tasted even worse. “If you give me one more spiel about him fixing our economy, Craig, I swear. Swear to  _ god.”  _ Kyle swiftly tapped his filter over the ashtray. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, people think just because he mucked up a hostage negotiation, Carter… what’s the matter?”

Craig, having snuffed out his cigarette halfway through, was staring at him. The hazel of his irises nearly invisible for his dilated pupils, Craig’s gaze was unblinking, focused, and would have been something resembling fearful, were it not for the fact that it was both vacant, and predatory. His brows were drawn, his mouth very slightly open with lips pulled into what was almost, but entirely unlike, a smile. The top row of his teeth, crooked, sharp canines and all, bared, Craig ran his tongue across them, then onto his lips, leaving them glistening. Leaving them all shiny wet around his sharp teeth. Craig’s smile stretched, and his tongue poked at that one pointy tooth of his, and maybe Kyle would’ve given in with what he was maybe halfway sure that Craig wanted, were it not the middle of the night.

“Oh.” Kyle squeezed Craig’s leg, feeling sinewy muscle underneath thick denim. He sighed, rubbing his thumb against Craig’s jeans. “I’m not really in the mood, baby. I’m so tired, and I have—”

“Nothing’s wrong.” As soon as that  _ look _ had appeared on Craig’s face, it was gone, replaced by a lopsided, yet absent, grin. “I’m going to shower. Then I’m going to take a Valium, like you said.” Craig said it slowly; robotic, almost.

Kyle was unsure why his heart skipped a beat, then, catching in his chest, leaping to his throat. It wasn’t unusual for Craig to get like that. He got overwhelmed sometimes, and liked to pretend as if nothing was wrong. That was all. He was guilty over not studying. He was out late. He took too much powder, and maybe wanted to do things with Kyle before his comedown hit in full-force, maybe felt a little guilty for wanting it when he’d been the one to wake Kyle. That was all...

And yet, there was something else there. Something different that Kyle couldn’t quite place.

“Hurry back. It’s cold in here without you.”

Stubbing out his smoke and placing the ashtray on his nightstand, before laying down and pulling the blankets to his chin, Kyle listened to the shuffling and banging of Craig in the bathroom, the sound of rain not enough to drown it out.  _ It’s a wonder I ever sleep through that shit, _ Kyle thought, allowing himself a soft snicker. And, after hearing the water shut off, and Craig’s deliberate footfalls padding down their hallway, Kyle knew exactly what bothered him.

There was something odd in how Craig licked his teeth.

  
  


* * *

 

The following few weeks passed in a blur. He slept enough to keep him upright during the day, Craig at his side all through the night with no comings and goings or into-the-morning study sessions, often after both collapsed sweaty and slick atop each other, kissing deep and long enough into their afterglow to make Kyle dizzy. Otherwise, it was work, and going on mid-day, weekend runs with Craig up and down steep, residential hills, and work projects Kyle brought home with him, and personal projects — tinkering around on his own PCs, about blowing a fuse while messing with his new model III TRS-80 before giving up and playing  _ Hellfire Warrior _ long enough that he got a crick in his neck and pins-and-needles running up the length of his left leg, and he realized he should probably eat something, even though he wasn’t exactly  _ hungry _ ; who had time to do something as time-wasting as  _ eat _ when there were so many other tasks at hand? 

All the while, Craig was quiet.

Which, in the grand scheme of things, was nothing new. Craig was more of an observer than a do-er, someone who often considered his words before allowing himself to speak — which, Kyle supposed, was a desirable trait in someone studying to practice law. He’d always been like that, particularly when they first met. Craig was almost  _ shy _ back then, a fact that always made Kyle smile when he thought about it, because now, sure, he wasn’t as verbose or quick to speak as Kyle, but he was anything but shy.

Kyle wasn’t surprised when Craig chose to sit and read the paper while he began cleaning the house, first starting in their bedroom, then Craig’s office — although he knew not to touch anything, not to rifle through the desk or rearrange any of Craig’s meticulously-organized books, files, and notebooks. He did pause to smile, though, when he was dusting the photograph of them, which sat next to Craig’s typewriter.

It was taken during last year’s Gay Freedom Day parade, smack in the middle of a sunny June afternoon. Arms entwined and standing in the foreground of an out-of-focus crowd, all smiling and celebrating and laughing among themselves, Craig was resting his chin against Kyle’s head, casting a small, closed-mouth smile at the camera, while Kyle, who had definitely indulged in more than a few cocktails by that point, grinned broadly.

As he delicately dusted the frame’s glass, the photo made his heart swell. To live in a place where he was more-or-less allowed, sometimes even  _ encouraged _ to be himself, with a person he loved as much as he loved Craig was something he never thought he’d see, let alone accomplish, when he was a confused, lonely kid growing up in a small, mountain town in Colorado. Even when they’d relocated to California when Kyle was a teenager, it was something that wasn’t talked about, not in polite company. It wasn’t  _ proper. _

But, no matter. He was here, now.

He’d cleaned through the bathroom, and the hallways, and the extra room like a whirlwind of Windex and laundry soap and elbow grease over the course of a week, and by the time he reached the kitchen and living room, it was a weekend where Craig was away, working at his part-time job as a library clerk, leaving Kyle alone.

He felt as if he was crawling out of his skin. The nagging feeling of what if, what if,  _ what if  _ had settled itself somewhere in the back of his brain years ago, in that space between his shoulder blades and on the very nape of his neck that made him feel like he was being watched when he was alone. That made him feel like he needed to keep himself occupied at all costs because maybe if he did that, nobody would hurt him. And if they did, if they snuck up on him when he was busy, while his mind was elsewhere, maybe it would come as enough of a surprise that he wouldn’t realize it was happening.

_ Nothing is going to hurt you; nothing  _ can _ hurt you,  _ he reminded himself as he grabbed a bucket of supplies from under the kitchen sink.  _ You have this utterly, totally, completely under control. _

For good measure, he poured himself a hefty glass of scotch from their living room minibar, taking a long sip and letting the warmth of the liquor course through him as he took a deep breath, set it atop a coaster on their coffee table, next to a heavy, glass ashtray and a pack of Camels, and got to work.

The television was switched on as soon as he arrived at that side of the living room, after dusting the hardbound volumes, tchotchkes and photos upon their bookshelf, and the lowered blinds covering their windows, lifting them up for but a moment to tackle the cobwebs forming in the corners of the sill. It was more for background noise, just to put his mind at ease and make him feel as if there was someone with him, that he switched it to a station that was mostly local interest — repeats of the news, public access shows, and the like — and sure enough, the news  _ was  _ on. They’d probably talk about politics, which was fine enough. Kyle could just tune it out, focus on his cleaning.

He paused for long enough to roll his eyes at the smartly-dressed anchors on the screen. Good old Steve and Janet, delivering the news of the San Francisco Bay with big, Stepford smiles.

“...in the polls against Democratic incumbent Jimmy Carter. You know, personally, I’d say it’s time for a change, Steve.” 

Steve laughed, hearty and forced. “I’d say so, Janet. If the President of the United States lacks the wherewithal to negotiate the freedom of—”

Kyle scoffed as he resumed his dusting — on the coffee table, this time — mentally shutting out the political yammering of the broadcast behind him. Some second-rate actor as President, who was clearly nothing more than a mouthpiece for his party? What would be next, his neighbor’s fat, orange cat that always turned up at his doorstep, begging for treats? Kyle knew he was probably going to win, but still — he didn’t care for Ronnie Ray-Gun when he was their governor, no matter what improvements he might’ve brought to the state of California, and would surely like him even less as president. That is, provided he wouldn’t nuke the whole world to holy hell before he was even sworn in.

Kyle still couldn’t force himself to think about that. Not right now. He didn’t want to think about a single thing that happened outside the four walls of their house. Surely he wouldn’t want to until the guy on the news was caught, no matter who took Oval Office.

He briefly entertained the thought that he should maybe put on a record instead, maybe take a break with his scotch, light up a cigarette, and have a listen to the new Kate Bush. His favorite store was this little blink-and-you-miss-it, hole-in-the-wall in the Haight, one among many, that seemed to be exclusively staffed by this surly, busty woman called Henrietta who smoked like a chimney and sported wild hair and dark clothes and a general air of mysterious disdain about her. Get her talking about music, though, and sometimes she’d crack a smile. While he couldn’t get her to turn him on to that deathrock crap she listened to, no matter how  _ new _ and  _ innovative  _ and  _ local _ it was, she  _ had  _ ordered this particular record straight from England, specially for him. Instead of ripping it open, running home, and sticking it on the turntable of his most treasured possession — a multi-component AM/FM Panasonic system with  _ everything: _ turntable, cassette deck  _ with _ recording functionality, audio tuner, and brown speakers bordered by wood lattice that took up a big chunk of the living room. The speakers were just a little out of date, but they were  _ big,  _ so you really knew they  _ worked. _

The album, rather, was still sitting in its wrapper, on the sideboard next to the bowl that held their keys, and a stack of unopened mail. He ran the duster across the plastic jacket, noticing when he lifted it up that it left a large, square imprint in the thick layer of settled dust. How long had it been since he’d cleaned? Why hadn’t  _ Craig _ done his part? Sure, he was busy, but Kyle was too, or so he  _ thought. _

Or, was it because he’d spent most his waking moments in the spring and summer, when he wasn’t at work, and sometimes when he was  _ supposed _ to be at work, in bed, or slumped on the couch, zoning out in front of the TV set, schlepping about the house and only leaving to go to the record shop, or to grab takeout which he could only occasionally bring himself to finish?

He didn’t like to think about  _ that, _ either. Not when he felt better, and productive, and untouchably indestructible like he did at that very moment.  _ Focus on the moment _ , he told himself, as Steve and Janet yammered on about Reagan, and the construction of downtown skyscrapers, and this and that about the economy and then, finally, as he was scrubbing at a sticky spot on the coffee table, the last thing he wanted to hear.

“Coming up, the harrowing testimony of Rebecca Skeeter, a San Francisco woman who says she faced California’s notorious Redhead Killer, and lived to tell the tale. This, and more, after the commercial break.”

His cleaning rag slipped out of his grip, sending Kyle fumbling for it on their shag carpet area rug with shaking hands and a churn in his stomach. He really  _ should _ listen to that record. Maybe transfer it onto a tape, so he could enjoy it on his Walkman while he took the cable car up to Nob Hill for work.

He knew the stories. Knew too much of them, really, about how they were found behind dumpsters, or in the park, or that time a tourist thought what floated atop the waters of the wharf was a seal, until it  _ wasn’t. _ About how the ones found in Santa Cruz and Merced, and as far north as Chico, and as far south as Exeter, were maybe,  _ probably _ connected, and the theory that maybe it wasn’t one single person, but a network of people, and that eyewitness testimony always differed enough that it was all but worthless gossip.

He knew that the details were essentially the same for each one. Multiple stab wounds, none of which delivered the killing blow, some of which were administered post-mortem. Strangulation was what killed them. Sometimes hands, sometimes a belt, sometimes a rope. Various reporting outlets claimed most were  _ violated, _ although the articles and newscasts never went into any detail beyond  _ brutally, _ and  _ no fluids found. _ They could be single women who didn’t return to their minimum-wage jobs as hotel cleaners and supermarket clerks. Men who had no connections in the state; transients hitchhiking from one city to another in search of manual labor. Prostitutes and junkies and the homeless. College students walking on poorly-lit paths. It seemed to be of no rhyme or reason, were it not for the one trait that tied them together.

Each and every one of them had red hair.

Rag forgotten, Kyle hurriedly seized his cigarettes, his drink, trembling enough as he topped it off that it sloshed over the glass, splashing onto the mahogany of their minibar. There was no use in bothering to clean it up, no use in bothering to turn down the blaring volume of the television because he couldn’t  _ look, _ couldn’t acknowledge. All he could bring himself to do was to flee to the kitchen, not in a run but in long enough steps that he was practically leaping.

Kyle didn’t turn the light on when he sat at the table and sparked his lighter, smoking halfway down his cigarette in a few drags, alternating with burning gulps of scotch that he wasn’t even tasting, just downing to distract, to drown out the images in his mind of himself laying in a hidden thicket of weeds in some forest that he didn’t even think existed. His mind flashed  _ red, _ red everywhere, on his throat, on his ripped-open sternum and—-

_ “Fuck,” _ he barked out, finding the hand not clutching his cigarette filter in a death grip twisting in his shoulder-length curls, pulling out a few winding strands. He could hear a Woodsy Owl PSA from the living room, a chorus of children singing about planting trees, about  _ give a hoot, don’t pollute, _ and he couldn’t help a laugh, because,  _ really _ . Woodsy  _ fucking _ Owl, at a time like this. But it wasn’t a laugh, not really, it was a cry, a plaintive, tearless sob, a shout for help that wouldn’t  _ fucking _ come because, yes, he had Craig. But Craig was always  _ gone,  _ always left him  _ alone,  _ always fucking  _ did this to him _ and it wasn’t fair.

He wasn’t invincible. He was a walking target.

He’d hit the filter on his smoke, and after he tossed it into the half-empty glass of water he’d left behind just an hour earlier, hearing it sizzle, he smoothed his hair.  _ Fuck,  _ he hated it. He could dye it. Or, he could shave it all off, right then, storm up to the bathroom and just end it all with the dull blade of the razor Craig used on his face. He should. He  _ knew _ he should, but Craig…

Craig thought it was beautiful. Kyle remembered, as he lit up another cigarette and watched grey tendrils of smoke unfurl like morning glory vines in the still air of his immaculately-clean kitchen, Craig scrunching up his mouth, then saying,  _ do what you need to do. _ And then Craig had kissed him, had told him,  _ reassured _ him that he was going to be okay, but what the hell did Craig know about him being okay, when Craig could come and go as he pleased, when Craig could do whatever he wanted and he didn’t have to be  _ afraid? _

He could hear, in the living room, the little string of music that indicated the news was about to start. Just a few bars of something corny and cliche that made some jingle writer somewhere  _ maybe _ rich. Probably not. Kyle swirled his drink, feeling his stomach churn along with it. They were talking about  _ them. _ About  _ him,  _ whoever he was, that monster out there. About all the shit that Kyle knew already and he wasn’t going to fucking  _ listen, _ he was going to focus on the hum of the avocado-green fridge that he hoped they could replace, soon, with something a little more modern, and the steady drip of the faucet that Craig was supposed to fix,  _ goddamn it, _ and he was going to finish his drink and pour another one, and then he was going to listen to his record, and he was going to get as drunk as he wanted, and maybe pop a Valium, and he was  _ not going to think about this  _ while he waited for Craig to come home.

The thing was, he needed another drink. To get another drink, he had to go to the living room. He wasn’t about to crack open a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator. Mixing alcohols would do him no good. And if he caught a bit of the broadcast, it would be entirely on accident. He could already hear the voices of Janet and Steve and the deep, brusque alto of who he presumed to be Rebecca Skeeter, the woman who got away, from the kitchen.

_ “He asked my name, and I said hey, I’m Red, and he gave me this… this funny look. And when I think about it, I never shoulda gotten in the car, the minute he gave me that look.” _

They were talking about how the man was driving a car that she was pretty sure was a Chrysler, not that she knew much about cars. She thought it was blue. Then again, it could have been green, or black, and no, she didn’t catch the license plate, because it was dark. About how he’d gotten a handcuff around her wrist and she’d taken it in stride because  _ some guys are just into that, yanno? _ and how it was a rainy night, and how she was afraid right away but she pretended that everything was fine and wasn’t that dumb of her. Kyle was surprised they let her on the air, assuming she did what he figured she did for a living.

As loathe as he was to admit, even to himself, some part of him had to know. It was the same part that made his neck prickle at the slightest out-of-place noise, that made his fingers itch for a cigarette whenever he and Kenny or Kevin or whoever walked him,  _ escorted _ him, through dark, hilly streets.

_ I should shave my head. I should listen to my record. I need another drink _ .

This time, his steps to the living room were small, cautious, and measured. Like he was walking on a sheet of ice and trying not to slip.

It was poured before he even glanced at the television. He did it carefully, letting out a breath in tandem with the liquid smoothly flowing into the glass, and took a pull. He was feeling fuzzy. Not drunk. Just  _ fuzzy, _ and his heart was pounding like he’d run a marathon throughout the entire city and was going to give out at any time.

Part of him was sure it would, the moment he looked at the screen, but as he finally did, as he took in the woman sitting adjacent to the anchors’ desk, who was pretty in a worn-down sort of way. Observing the black leather jacket and a smart dress and shiny black heels she wore, and her waist-length, straight red hair, Kyle found it somehow surprising that he was still upright. Hand on the sideboard to steady himself, he decided against going further, against sitting on the couch.

Janet and Steve were looking at her with a put-upon air of concern. “Can you tell us what happened next?” Janet asked her, hands professionally clasped on her desk.

“He… touched my hair. And then, he goes.” The woman swallowed, shifting in her uncomfortable-looking chair. She held a tissue in her hands, which she twisted. “He goes, ‘You’re so  _ pretty,’ _ and he’s just touchin’ my hair. Petting it. Like I was a dog.” She shuddered, her heavily-lined, green eyes darting toward the ground, before letting out a shaky exhale. “I was so sure, then, that it was the guy people were talkin’ about. The one after all us redheads. He got my friend, Lexus. Lexus Martin, you know? She was a waitress. I remember seeing it on the news, just when I was wondering why I hadn’t seen her around.”

Janet and Steve glanced at each other, visibly uncomfortable. Kyle gripped the edge of the sideboard hard enough for it to dig, sharply, into the palm of his hand.

Shuffling a stack of papers, Steve cleared his throat. “Some eyewitnesses in San Mateo reported seeing a man of…  _ hispanic _ descent in the area prior to disappearances. Was this your.” Another clear of the throat, and Kyle would have scoffed at the attempt to hide what was clearly some racist  _ bullshit, _ or launched into a rant, were Craig there, if he wasn’t clutching onto the sideboard with one hand, and his glass, which felt heavier than a full bottle, in the other. “Was this your  _ observation _ with the man you encountered?”

She shook her head adamantly. “He was white.”

“Can you tell us a little more about what he looked like?”

She scrunched up her nose. “Real dark, brown hair. Tall. Normal lookin’, really...” Pausing, she shrugged, as if she had decided not to hold back on her next comment. “I guess he was actually kinda cute. That kinda tall, dark, and handsome thing everyone likes. Someone who I wouldn’t, um, you know. Expect to see down in my neck of the woods. Had on a nice shirt and everything.”

Kyle was sure he was going to vomit. He should’ve eaten before he started drinking. Shouldn’t have smoked so quickly. Blood rushing in his ears, for a few moments he didn’t register what Rebecca and Janet and Steve were saying on the television, only that Rebecca was tearing up the tissue into tiny fragments as she spoke.

“... and he had a weird voice,” she concluded, with a resolute nod.

“What do you mean by weird?” Janet asked.   


“I dunno. Deep. I don’t know how to fuckin’ describe it, just kinda… funny.”

At this, Steve let out a strangled, scandalized sound. “Young lady, I need to remind you that we  _ are _ live.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” She rolled her eyes, then, face going somber, she white-knuckled what was left of her tissue, her knee jiggling up and down. “You know what else? He said… he gets this look on his face, because I’m real scared, you know, by then, just about ready to sh— to, uh, mess up my pants. It’s this look like he  _ knows  _ I’m scared and he’s just. Just  _ loving _ it, you know? And he says…” While her eyes screwed shut for a moment, Kyle, on the other hand, couldn’t look away. “He said, ‘Honey, what’s wrong? Don’t you like me?’ I’ll remember that forever. Honey, don’t you like me. I don’t think I want to talk about it anymore. But I got away. That’s what’s important.”

Then there was Janet, reaching out to lay a comforting hand on Rebecca’s shoulder, and Rebecca jerking away from her, and the camera cutting to Steve’s face as he finished their story. And Kyle, trembling, took a sip of liquor.

The moment a placard flashed across the screen, containing an 800 number, a description, and a sketch, Kyle’s knees buckled. The glass slipped out of his grip, spilling, breaking into a thousand minuscule shards the second it hit the floor.


End file.
